The Price of Truth
by CrisisChild
Summary: He was born as Genesis Rhapsodos, but you would know him best as that one SOLDIER standing by the wall, minding his own business and waving politely with an enigmatic smile. As if he knew too much. You all know him as KUNSEL.
1. Part the First

**Title:** The Price of Truth

 **Author:** CrisisChild

 **Summary:** He was born as Genesis Rhapsodos, but you would know him best as that one SOLDIER standing by the wall, minding his own business and waving politely with an enigmatic smile. As if he knew too much. You all know him as KUNSEL.

 **Rated:** T

 **Beta'd:** Nope.

 **Disclaimer:** No part of the FFVII Compilation is mine aside from crazy headcanons and OCs that I made for my own purposes.

 **The Price of Truth**

 _by CrisisChild_

 **PART THE FIRST**

My Name is Genesis

He had been born as Genesis Rhapsodos; only son of the mayor of Banora. A charming boy with russet hair like his mother and eyes so blue, they put the sky to shame. Though he'd been a small boy then, he loved to read, because his father taught him that the strongest people in the world didn't have bulging muscles or grand swords, but held knowledge and wisdom in their minds. True strength laid in the mind.

And eventually, he would learn, strength was also found in the heart.

His first book had been Loveless; it was a compilation of poems, short stories and even a half-finished script for a play. The play intrigued him quite a bit. There had been an annotation about how the playwright had died under mysterious circumstances before he could finish it. Many, according to the note, had brought their own interpreted endings to the unfinished play with varying receptions. He wondered which ending was the most popular? After reading through the script, the boy thought he liked the ending where the lovers reunited the best.

The simplest ending and the happiest; the perfect way to go for a small child of only five years. Children did not over-complicate matters nor did they think too much on the consequences of the actions of adults. If there was a happy ending to reach, what else mattered?

The boy thought of his life much the same. He had his books, two loving parents, and even a friend in one of the locals! What more could he need then? Life was perfect. Picture perfect like in a story book.

So he thought nothing of it when a man in a dark suit approached him with hands folded behind his back. The child simply smiled guilelessly at the stranger and introduced himself as his mother had taught him to.

"My name is Genesis!" chirped the boy. "Are you looking for my daddy?" Because his father was an important man and lots of people always swung by their house to talk to him. His mother explained because his father was the mayor, like a 'king' but smaller. At the time the boy had asked his mother that if his father was a mayor and mayors were like kings, did his father rule a mayordom instead of a kingdom?

"No," replied the man in black. "I was looking for you."

And in six words, the boy's world was turned completely upside down.

Before he knew it, he was roughly caught under his arms and slung over the stranger's shoulder. The child screamed for his mother, voice going shrill and his shouts for help rang out over and over. There was the bang of the porch door slamming against the wall and a cry of fear and denial. Practically crowing in victory, because the child knew his mother would come save him from the bad man, he ceased in beating his tiny hands against the man's back to wave for his mother.

Alas, she never did make it in time.

Tackled to the ground by another shadow, she was held down to the ground as he was taken away from her. From his home. From everything he'd ever known.

He was treated to the sight of his mother, home fought to get the man holding her down off of her, to struggle forward only to get beaten over the brow. He saw the blood trickle from her forehead as she reached out to him, mouthing her pain and loss. Seeing this, the boy's cries were renewed and he shouted for himself and for his injured mother. _Let go, let go_ , he begged. His mother was hurt and he wanted to go home. _Let go, let go_.

The man did not listen. Grunting from the effort of carrying the squalling child, the man threw the boy carelessly to the ground. Thinking it time to make haste back home, the boy made to run away back to his mother. Yet still, he was held fast, a hand roughly gripping his wrist. He could feel a hand shaped bruise forming just as the man swung his free hand towards him.

Striking against his temple, the boy fell, and the world became nothing.

 **=The Price of Truth=**

A long, long time ago, they were but assistants inside the laboratories of Shinra Manufacturing Company, before it now became known as Shinra Inc.

Tempest and Nemesis Rhapsodos, a wife and husband pair who worked under Professor Gast Faramis in the Science Department. Genetic engineers, they had once been in charge of splicing the DNA of several species in the hopes of creating a lifeform that would in turn be turned into a biological weapon. They made experiment after experiment, pushing out artificial lifeforms through a silicon womb under the watchful eye of their leader. Yes, the pair of them could accomplish almost anything asked of them.

Except create life of their own. Tempest wanted a child so bad, but no matter how hard she tried with her husband, nothing came of their attempts. Both of them getting on in age, Tempest felt the biological clock ticking harder inside of her. And thinking it would be too late, she willingly signed a contract with the company to become part of a new project. One that would make her the surrogate mother of what would be an artificially create Cetra.

Better than nothing, she had thought. Since she could have no children, it seemed, better to devote herself to science and something she could call her own for a while. Even if it was just a lie.

But then, deep into the experiments in Nibelheim, far into the horrors that came with the being named Jenova, a miracle occurred.

She had a son! A darling little boy.

The company hadn't been happy about that.

Part of the contract was that she would have no prior children or future children without the express permission of the company. This was due to the fact that the social experiment needed to remain controlled and adding a random variable like another child may ruin whatever result they would hope to attain. The child would be taken away at best. At worst, it would be terminated.

Was it really that far fetched that Nemesis simply ran away with her husband, hoping never to be found so they could raise their miracle child in peace?

But in the end, they found them. And they took away her baby boy and forced upon her the specimen as was written in her contract. She'd almost killed the child, nigh traumatized the boy who had been introduced to her as her 'long lost son', just as she'd been told to him that she was his _mother_. And she yelled and raged and announced to the Turks that took away her precious son and gave her this abomination against nature that this was not her son and never _will_ be. And she would continue, well into the night when her husband returned, finding what had happened and also forced into the awful charade. The black suits were not going to be leaving any time soon. This was to be their new role, their new reality.

The company always got what it wanted.

 **=The Price of Truth=**

The next time when colour and shape appeared before his young eyes he was in an unknown place.

His head hurt, he found. The side pounded uncomfortably as he sat up on the ground. Which was hard. Had it always been hard? He had the impression of running upon dirt roads and soft sands all his life. Not pure stone. No, concrete. This smooth surface was concrete. He didn't remember where he knew that word, but he knew it. One hand to his aching head, the other stroking the ground as if it were a live animal in need of comfort (like him, just where was he) the boy peered around.

In front of him were several buildings, behind his back there was another one. Tall and large with sounds coming out the windows. Voices. Shrill and high, full of excitement.

To his surprise, the door opened to the building and he was hard-pressed to get up in time to get away (he felt that was important). However, his limbs did not want to cooperate with his still smarting brain and he fell back down onto his rear with a distressed cry.

"My, my," spoke a matronly voice, "what are you doing here, my child?"

Out from the building came a woman, old, frail looking, and weather-worn. She wore a simple black smock over modest clothes that gave him the impression of someone he should respect. Why that was he had no idea. Her eyes were warm, yet worried as they passed over the boy on the street.

"My goodness! You're bleeding, child. Where are your parents, what happened?" the old woman inquired, descending on him right away. A handkerchief was out from a pocket and a hand was prying stubborn little fingers away from the spot that clearly still hurt. Sounds of protest left the boy, but the woman continued on, tutting someone or something as she touched the cloth to the side of his head.

"That hurts!" he cried, trying to wrench away.

"Good," the woman stated. Voice firm, but not meant to sound vicious. Merely stating fact.

"It means you're alive, child. Now, let me ask you again. What happened? Where are your parents, my boy? And..." She paused a moment, to wipe even more blood away from his face. "...what is your name?"

The boy wanted to rage. He wanted to flail his arms and speak of the indignity of everything, because the questions were ridiculous and pointless to him. Because if he knew what had happened he would have said so already. And obviously, his parents wouldn't have just left him as he was. As for his name, what a dumb and obvious question! His name was-

But the boy never did get the chance to show his anger. Neither did he disrespect the nun that had come to his aid by throwing a tantrum. In fact, he became still and glassy-eyed as his mind tried to reach the information it should have had.

There was _nothing_.

"My...my name? My name is...my name is..."

He tried harder, pushed further back. However, all he could recall in his memory was just from the moment he woke up.

"I...what _is_ my name?"


	2. Part the Second

**Title:** The Price of Truth

 **Author:** CrisisChild

 **Summary:** He was born as Genesis Rhapsodos, but you would know him best as that one SOLDIER standing by the wall, minding his own business and waving politely with an enigmatic smile. As if he knew too much. You all know him as KUNSEL.

 **Rated:** T

 **Beta'd:** Nope.

 **Disclaimer:** No part of the FFVII Compilation is mine aside from crazy headcanons and OCs that I made for my own purposes.

 **The Price of Truth**

 _by CrisisChild_

 **PART THE SECOND**

Junon Orphanage

Amnesia was a tricky thing. You could have the kind that entirely wiped out your memories - _your whole identity_ \- from you or you could be the kind of person who only had a select amount of memories taken away. If you were really unlucky, you had the kind of trauma that kept erasing the days you continued to live.

Kunsel had lost every memory from before he arrived at the Junon Orphanage.

His name wasn't Kunsel, he was sure. It was just the standard name given to male children who were left at the orphanage who hadn't been given one at birth. Or, like him, had lost his memory of it. There were currently seven Kunsels at the home. They had been labelled as Kunsel A, Kunsel B, Kunsel C, etc.

He was Kunsel G.

Little Kunsel did not particularly enjoy being one of many, just another in the Kunsel collective. Though he did not remember who he was, he could tell he was different from the others. Not just another Kunsel, he thought rebelliously, but _special_.

Certainly he did not have the deficiencies the other children had in this home. He did not find himself thinking of the next game to be played when the children were let out and the sun was still theirs, but when the next lesson would come and they could have access to books. There was a drive in him to learn that the others lacked, that others did not understand. Exemplary children were adopted, he knew, if they weren't young enough to kick start the nurturing instincts of prospective parents looking for 'that missing something'.

To get out of Junon Orphanage one had to be young and adorable or utterly remarkable.

Already at age 12 Kunsel was already considered too old now to be thought of as cute, starting his growing pains into adulthood – an adulthood, he mused, that may be harsh if he did not have any benefactors. At 18 the orphanage 'expelled' children. No better way to put it. It was one second, a good and happy celebration of one's birth and then the next day the birthday child would be asked to pack up and leave. For seven years Kunsel witnessed these events quietly, filing them away in his mind. He picked up things very quickly, he did.

He was very good at learning things, even topics the orphanage did not teach.

Kunsel, as implied, was a very observant boy. Quiet and unobtrusive, but so _very_ helpful. Never a toe out of line. An angel. He liked it when people thought of him as a good little boy, an obedient boy. _A wonderful boy_. No one ever blamed him for anyone, how could they? No, never when a book went missing from the head matron's office. Nobody ever fingered him when food mysteriously left the ice box. And honestly, how could the other children even think he'd be sneaking about at night, fiddling with things he had no rights to?

He'd only ever been caught once, when he'd been smaller and much hungrier. Less _careful_. A good solid spanking had been in order for being up late, sneaking into the kitchen and attempting to nick a pie that had been settling in the cold depths. He'd sent several plates crashing and woke the whole orphanage up. And he learned quickly that he should avoid the wrath of the matrons at all costs. He learned that he should never be caught when _he did this again_.

Cleverness and stealth were his best features and he used them both to get what he wanted in order to get ahead of the others. And with every year he did not get adopted, he promised himself to become wiser and more mentally attractive. Who wouldn't want such a praiseworthy child at their side? An angel, the matrons would say, as they tried to shush another child who was crying and wailing in an ugly fashion because she lost her doll.

Funny that, he'd say when asked about it, he was sure he saw Molly C with the old raggity thing the other day during play time. Maybe Kunsel A was behind it – they got into such an awful row about her always playing with Tom R instead of him.

The others left in such disarray all the time, it was any wonder that they somehow were picked first before him. The perfect boy. The smart, gentle, sweet knowledgeable boy who smiled angelically for the parents visiting. They all did say he was quite nice. A good boy. And many praises were heaped upon him as he was spending time with these adults looking for children. But then they'd choose someone else, for though Kunsel G was a very nice and intelligent boy, he was just not what they were looking for.

And that was well and fine; who needed such plebs that couldn't understand the investment they'd get in adopting him? Someone worthier was bound to find him, he told himself. It was, however, quite the spectacle when he did sometimes lose it himself and over one simple statement:

"It's like he's missing something. The drive is there, but something in his eyes seems empty."

Kunsel G had only ever let loose a single tantrum about that. It wasn't his fault he had selective amnesia. It wasn't his fault that maybe his real parents might show up to claim him (to which he would snort; they hadn't found him in seven years if they were even alive at all). The matrons always told his story, as if it would make any difference! He just wanted out of here. He did not want to end up like all the others at age 18. Jobless, without any useful skills and no one to catch them if anything went wrong. Oh-so-many horror stories floated back to the orphanage of the others who grew up and left to find a way to live, only to wind up dead or ruined. Or both.

He hated being called 'empty'. He found being homeless and helpless even more distasteful.

So, like always, he learned quickly to hold his tongue. _Really_ hold it. Let only honey spill from his lips so he could eventually charm a family into taking him in, avoiding the fate that awaited so many unwanted children. He would make a better more believable mask. He would hide that emptiness within him, the things which he lacked that made others feel disturbed about him when his smiles couldn't fool them.

He would fill the cracks that led to the abyss of his soul with knowledge and cover his face with a beguiling smile.

Another family was coming. Two people formerly in military service, looking to retire early and start a family proper. A woman who could not have any children and a man seeking to find his legacy.

When they arrive,d uncertain and unsure, Kunsel G was quick to greet them at the door, opening it wide so hat they could enter in together, then shutting it behind them with practiced ease. And with the same kind of ease, he levelled his smile directly at the woman, promising himself this would be the last time. _He would go to a home_.

She blushed, then laughed; properly enthralled by his boyish charm.

The woman's husband, a gruffer looking man some years her senior it looked like, merely grunted softly. As if he refused to speak of anything directly with a child in attendance. His hand went to his badge resting upon his breast pocket; he'd come to the orphanage still in his proper colours. He fidgeted with the ornament and Kunsel knew he was anxious as well, making him smile all the more.

 _Oh_ , he thought, _I shall be going home today. Whether they truly want me or not. Today is the day I leave Junon Orphanage_.


	3. Part the Third

**Title:** The Price of Truth

 **Author:** CrisisChild

 **Summary:** He was born as Genesis Rhapsodos, but you would know him best as that one SOLDIER standing by the wall, minding his own business and waving politely with an enigmatic smile. As if he knew too much. You all know him as KUNSEL.

 **Rated:** T

 **Beta'd:** Nope.

 **Disclaimer:** No part of the FFVII Compilation is mine aside from crazy headcanons and OCs that I made for my own purposes.

 **The Price of Truth**

 _by CrisisChild_

 **PART THE THIRD**

War

Times were changing, moving forward. Kunsel was fascinated by how quickly the world advanced. His father was less than pleased at the idea of some giant metallic thing looming overhead, even if he saw the strategic value of it.

Kunsel's first 'birthday' (the day he was adopted since his real birthday was not documented) with his surrogate parents, Martha and John Fuerst, was christened with the giant shadow of what would be a communication tower standing tall in the middle of Junon beach where his party would be held. His father explained to him that it would help aircraft land safely on the eventual airstrip of 'Upper Junon'. Standing on the beach one could easily see the foundations of a naval fortress being built. Bony, metallic beams jutting up into the air, ever-reaching towards the heavens.

John thought it a waste to make something so huge that it would create a whole new town above their heads, effectively blocking out the sun. Apparently, their town was but the prototype for another glorious city to be built in another part of the New Continent that promised more jobs and a better life for the citizens of the world. Kunsel thought it was amazing what the Shinra Electric Company was accomplishing in such a small amount of time.

But of course, his mind did not linger on such thoughts for long. After all it was his first birthday and no matter how he tried he couldn't recall ever celebrating one. There was some small feeling at the mention of something as festive as a birthday, however the child in his tween years had no idea if it was residual happiness from a memory long gone or an excitement from being able to have some fun. It disturbed Kunsel quite a bit, being unable to tell if it was the him of now or the him of yore.

And somehow, he still wasn't sure if he wanted to be the him of yesteryear anymore.

Martha and John were a little old (and old fashioned), but kind and loving as far as parents went. A pair of ex-military who decided to retire early from active service and become teachers with a family. Yet tragedy found that they could not have any children naturally and after several years of trying, had decided on bringing home an adopted child to cherish. Kunsel had been that child and while they did not lavish him, he was definitely loved and cared for deeply.

Even someone with empty memories like him could tell they loved him from the bottom of their hearts after living with them for a year.

But even knowing this, he couldn't help the small bit of anxiousness as he watched the table be set up, balloons blown and tied off with vibrant, curly ribbons to the backs of folding chairs on the sand. Everything was distressingly muted. Was it a side effect of his memory loss? It had been so long ago, when he was five, this other him. He'd barely been a person then. So surely it should be no big loss, right? He'd lived as Kunsel far longer than he'd lived in the time before he became Kunsel. His main drive to get out of the orphanage was to gain freedom to search for who he was but now that he was out (and a full year to boot) the will and want to know had waned drastically.

He should be alarmed. He should be rekindling that flame that drove him to steal, to cheat, to lie and worm his way out of Junon Orphanage. He should be caring right now, how the muted feeling of unconditional love started blooming in his chest for Martha and John when it should remain loyal to parents whose faces he no longer remembered.

He didn't.

"Kunsel!" his mother called. Her voice drew his attention and her saw her carrying one too many packages and went immediately to assist her bu skimming off more than half of them, much to her chagrin. With him carrying most of the packages, she was able to have a free hand which she used to swat his shoulder affectionately. "Show off."

Kunsel grinned sweetly for her. "No, I'm a gentleman, Ma. A lady shouldn't be carrying so many boxes on her own."

"Oh, you!" She swatted at him again, but being quick to learn, he dodged out of the way of her hands. "Go give those boxes to your father, he'll be wanting them."

"Yes, Ma," he agreed. And he meant to get away before she got him again or did anything else, but old Martha was also quick on the draw with new tactics. Tucking her single box under her arm, she grasped Kunsel and tugged him over to plant a kiss on his cheek. There was nothing muffled about how embarrassed he felt, having her do that to him all of a sudden. " _Ma_!"

"Just wanted to remind you that I love you, Kunsel," she breathed against his temple. In the days leading up his birthday his adoptive mother became mushier and mushier. It was rather alarming how she swung from one emotion (happy as a chocobo with a crate with greens) and then straight to another (the same chocobo who had those aforementioned greens cruelly taken away before it could eat any). Kunsel suspected a hormonal imbalance; knowing the possible reason didn't make being nuzzled and smooched by his mother any less awkward.

He was going to carefully, verbally navigate himself out of this.

" _Ma_ , you're gonna make me drop all of these boxes for Pa," he complained, putting just enough whine in his voice to seem cute rather than irritating. Like he was playing along with her antics. Martha let go eventually, with another kiss on the other cheek. He played the part of the disgusted child appropriately, to which she laughed (and that made Kunsel smile for real; he loved it when his mother laughed).

John had given up on setting up the rest of the chairs at the birthday table, citing that if too many people showed up it was their own fault for not mentioning they were coming. He was sitting on one of the decorated chairs, finagling a radio into working. The old thing came from the days of John's own father and could still pick up radio waves, but _barely_. The thin antennas on top of the machine needed to be moved constantly, so they never looked the same way twice in the same day if his old man wanted to listen to the wireless. Kunsel dropped the boxes next to John, grabbing his attention. John nearly jumped a mile from fright.

"Son, don't spook your old man like that!" John chastised.

"Sorry, Pa. Ma got these for you," Kunsel offered, gesturing towards the mysterious boxes. They had rattled a bit as he carried them, sounds of metal hitting metal chinked with every step he took towards his father. "What are they for, do you need help?"

While Martha Fuerst captured his heart, John Fuerst took hold of Kunsel's mind. The man loved to tinker and fiddle with things and had a pretty extensive and practical knowledge on machinery, something he showed to Kunsel on more than a few occasions. Kunsel was always eager to get elbow deep in elbow grease alongside John, working on the family car or fixing a generator or even rigging something new that would help Martha in the house (their latest father-son project was a machine for doing the washing for her).

The only thing he didn't allow was anyone touching the old radio.

And like anyone told not to touch something, Kunsel really wanted to have at the radio. At the very least, his father taught him about radio waves, how sound was carried on them, how they could be intercepted, on frequencies and all the intricacies of the fine art of communication. Before retiring his father had been a communications officer and knew everything there was to know about radios. Telephones were a different story, though. While not a recent invention, John refused to answer or use them, still preferring telegrams and letters and radios over something as sensible as a phone line.

Kunsel peered at all the boxes, then glanced at his father, making his best expectant expression. The thirst to know was strong in him and old John had to laugh at that; the best way to punish Kunsel when he'd be naughty wasn't to make him sit in time out, it was denying him knowledge. Any question he posed would be averted and left unanswered which he hated more than not playing.

"Just some old things, nothing to think about. Gonna give 'em to that matron from the orphanage."

Despite being out and away from the orphanage, Kunsel was still subjected to visits from the matron to make sure the transition went smoothly. Of course it had, Kunsel was not like those sniveling little idiots back at the orphanage who had little to no ambition beyond the next game of tag. And rather than visiting less and less due to how well Kunsel had adjusted, the matron visited more as if how well he integrated into the family was not natural.

Kunsel overheard her once while he was at the upstairs landing of his new home, listening in to the matron speak to the Fuersts. Of course Martha and John had been worried, asking if they should be expecting anything. And the matron said 'No, no, no' in a hurried way. But he could tell what she was implying: that Kunsel was not a normal child, for all his calm personality and charm.

They would be coming over, the matron and the other orphanage kids. Since it was apparently a sad affair to have a birthday party and no party goers and since Kunsel had no real friends to attend this event (Kunsel had yet to formally start at school due to him still being in his adjustment period and thus could not make any friends yet), his parents decided to do him a kindness and invite the whole orphanage over alongside some neighbours.

Honestly, it wasn't needed. Kunsel would have been just fine enough with just himself and his parents celebrating only. Who needed other people? He listlessly kicked at a hermit crab making its way across the sand.

But if that was what they expected, he could play up the happy good boy for them and get along with the others.

Around noon John got the radio working and the guests started milling in. Old faces he once knew (and secretly torment for his own ends). They were looking perky though and the matron looked a little more stressed than normal, like something weighed heavily on her mind. But once they were unleashed on the beach, well, what did one expect from a party with children? And for those who once lived in the orphanage, Kunsel could attest, the luxury of a birthday party was not something to be wasted by sitting aside and glaring at the sky.

He knew them all by name. He also knew their letters. And Kunsel accounted for them all from the orphanage. The whole gang was here. It looked like no one else had any luck being adopted. Or so he thought. All of them looked smarter than usual, clothes new and freshly pressed. Not hand-me-downs donated to the orphanage but new-new in that if he hadn't known better he could swear the tags were still attached.

Of course curiosity got the better of him and he had to ask one of them while they were running about on the beach to the music of some old singer nobody his age knew the name of.

"We all got adopted!" Peter – a short, mousy boy with a penchant for crying nasally when he got upset – said.

Kunsel's brow raised at this. "All of you?"

"At the same time," came a reply from Mary (she had freckles all the way to her ankles, he recalled and could skip rope more than a hundred times). "A rich man is taking all of us in. No interviews or anything. Matron just said 'This man will be taking care of you come next week'."

That was...a little strange, Kunsel thought. He mused that even if someone was rich taking the whole lot of parentless children seemed a bit off. And from the look of things, the head matron thoughts so, too. She stood at the side, watching over them all, a tired sad look on her face.

The subject was changed quickly (a habit the others often exhibited that Kunsel absolutely hated when he was trying to get answers out of someone) and one of the boys decided they should play a game he came up with the other day.

"War!" a boy, Thomas, suggested. "I kept overhearing matron talk about it since it's in the news a lot lately. It's when two sides fight until only one side wins."

Kunsel knew about war, if only the concept he read from books and from John's own haunted recollections. The last true war had been over for twenty years now, back when his father had first entered the army, long before Kunsel was born. He'd instilled in the boy that war was not glorious, war was not pretty and most certainly that war was not _fun_.

Blue eyes flicked towards the group of adults that had gathered together around the wireless. He wondered how John would react to the children playing at war.

Kunsel was not allowed to wonder too much though, as a group of boys quickly claimed him as their 'king'. On the other side which had an uneven ratio of girls to boys, one girl (Stacy, he recalled, the bossiest girl he'd ever met) stood up and declared herself president, which sparked quite the argument that girls couldn't be president. Only boys could be presidents, their puerile minds would goad them to say, girls get to be first ladies only. The argument persisted for quite a while, delaying their game, but after watching the two teams now separate into girls vs boys now, he sardonically thought that this was more representative of what war was.

Each side fighting to prove who was right and who was wrong until all that was left was a bloody mess.

Finding the exercise of getting involved in such things utterly exhausting, he left the two groups to go at each other to sit down at the table and grab a bite or two, to eat. He found that he wasn't the only one there, away from the hubbub of the other children. Smaller than him, very much younger by many years, probably too young to be allowed to roughhouse with the others just yet. She was a little girl whom he was not familiar with yet; a newcomer to Junon?

She had dark hair and bright blue eyes that were shaped like large almonds. There was something off about her, though he couldn't tell what, exactly. She was... _exotic_. Like fruit that came from another land. _Foreign_. He'd seen black hair before and blue eyes, certainly, but never quite on a girl like this. She was strange, he thought, she was weird. She was _different_.

Kunsel didn't hate her, but he did feel uncomfortable around her.

Her eyes were not on him, though, more on her little paper plate filled with goodies his mother baked. She concentrated on that, munching quietly and occasionally darting her attention towards the adults. Probably checking for her parents to see if they'd left her, most likely. It was such a cruel trick a parent could play on a child. The one time Martha and John ever pulled the 'we're leaving you here' trick on him, he genuinely bawled, actually shaken up by the idea of being left behind again and what if he lost his memories once more? Sure, the trauma of being abandoned messed up his head before, it could very well happen again! So he understood her action of checking the adults every once in a while.

It wasn't fun being left behind.

On a whim, he reached out to her.

"Hey, what's your name?" Kunsel asked conversationally. She didn't answer. The adults had her attention again; he looked too, for a second, trying to pinpoint her parents. The wireless was saying something now, the music switched to the news. The din of the children arguing continued still.

"Hello? What's your name?" Kunsel posed again. Still no response, though she seemed to be inclining her head towards his direction. Was she trying to listen to the wireless or trying to pick up his voice? Clearing his voice, Kunsel spoke up in a clearer and precise voice. "Excuse me, hello! What's your name?"

The girl squeaked with surprise, sitting upright. Her head whipped around so she could look at him and before he could apologize (or not), she was up and out of her seat and scrambling across the beach to the waiting arms of a man (probably her father).

Kunsel pouted, put out by her extreme reaction. "Weird girl."

He meant to tune out the rest of the world while he ate and drank, however something of a kerfuffle was happening by the radio John had set up. Some of the adults were backing up and away, a few stomping away and going to angrily pick up their children from the sand and carrying them off. Kunsel didn't think much of it, at first, but his attention was drawn away from his food again as one man raised his voice and pointing at a couple with their child – the girl and her parents!

Curious, Kunsel got up from his seat to amble over and get a better feel for the situation and maybe try to diffuse it, if he could. Adults were still easy to fool, to calm down with the right pleasantries, the correct words. This was supposed to be his birthday and he'd be damned if a bunch of overgrown children made it any more unbearable than normal.

Getting closer he could see his parents there, looking decidedly agitated, as did the couple with their daughter. It seemed to be that Martha and John were standing up for them as the others argued over something being heard on the radio.

Kunsel tuned in at the same time the other children gave shouts of agreement over the terms of their game and the strange girl buried her face into her mother's neck and cried. He caught the end snippet of an announcement made by President Shinra.

"...war has been officially declared with Wutai."


End file.
